


Let The Halls Ring

by Daughter_of_the_Mountains



Series: Nadadel [10]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Amber Is An Actual Eye Colour, Apparently My Jewel Knowledge Isn't That Great Anymore, But He Doesn't Know...Yet, Cousins, Gen, Glóin's Future Wife Is Here, I Don't Know A Thing About Weapons Or Fighting, I'm Going To Try Not To Make A Mary Sue Out Of Her, It's Also A Jewel Made Of Fossilised Tree Sap, Possible Incorrect Methods Of Training With Throwing Axes, Seriously I Won't Be Focusing On Neoma, Weapons, i think, oh yeah, where was i?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-02
Updated: 2015-08-02
Packaged: 2018-04-12 16:18:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4486362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daughter_of_the_Mountains/pseuds/Daughter_of_the_Mountains
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dwalin's turn to watch over his littlest cousin goes more differently than any could have expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let The Halls Ring

**Author's Note:**

> Just so you know,Neoma is not the focus of this story. She'll pop up from time to time, but it won't be about her. This collection is meant to be strictly about siblings and sibling relationships (and I broke that rule,sorry!), but this break in canon, if you like,is going to be fairly rare as the tale unfolds.
> 
> Also, what is amber actually made of? I think it's from the sap of trees, but I can't quite recall :/

Dwalin quite reminded Glóin of his father and brought back the few, precious memories of what he could recall about his Uncle Fundin. Indeed, Dwalin had the smile of Fundin. The semi-permanent glower that both Gróin and Fundin had possessed.

And, by Mahal, did he share the adoration for anyone under the age of 72. When walking to the Training Hall with his tall cousin, he distinctly heard someone say about how cheerful Master Dwalin looked this morning, though when Glóin looked up, Dwalin merely looked neutral.

Now, they've finished setting up the archery targets, set the knives out for selection, and have just finished propping the staves and axes up. There are two colossal ones, ones that no warrior could wield without great strength. Indeed, even by the standards of Menfolk, these are large, forged of iron and steel. The blade is nearly as large as Glóin is, well-polished, but it hasn't been sharpened in many a day.

"Did Da use these?"

"Yes." Dwalin answers softly. "Before your mother got ill, he'd come in and practise. I don't know what we'll do with them now."

"Can I practise with them one day?"

Dwalin stares down at him, nought but surprise showing in the deep depths of his brown eyes. "Hmm." Dwalin rumbles. "You've still got a long way to grow. A lot of muscle to develop. Still, I don't see why not! Just know it'd take some time."

"Dwalin?"

"No, you may not practise now. Choose a smaller ax."

"No!" Glóin protests, though he had been hoping that Dwalin might relent. "I just wondered if you use them."

"Me? Are you saying I would be foolhardy and reckless enough to use the very weapons my uncle warned me not to? That I would, on occasion, take them up?"

"You do!"

Dwalin chuckles, shaking his head. "Yes. Yes, I have in the past. I shouldn't have, but I did. You, however, must not. You haven't had training yet with such large weapons and you aren't strong enough to lift them. I shouldn't have done it, myself."

"I _won't_ , cousin. But you can lift them?"

"I can. But I don't want to lift them around you. All it'd take is a quick turn and you'd bleed to death. And that would be beyond terrible."

"Ohhh, okay."

" _'O_ _hhh, alright cousin, I suppose I'll try not to bleed to death.'_ " Dwalin teases, ruffling his hair. Strands of hair spill out of its confining braid and Dwalin tuts. "I don't even _know_ why your brother insists on braiding your hair. It looks lovely for about an hour, but inevitably, it'll escape. Take it out of the braid and put it in a ponytail."

Óin won't let him escape the house without his hair in a plait of some sort. Dwalin rolls his eyes when he hears this. "He's gone mad with this gêmadad lark. I don't recall Aunty Sannith braiding our hair like Óin does with you."

"Maybe that's why Óin does it. I mean, look how you ended up."

"Oh?" Dwalin growls. "Indeed? Hmm.. Tell me, are you still ticklish under your arms?"

"Err... I'm not... No, cousin!"

"No? I think we'd better make certain." Dwalin takes a quick step forward and lifts his arms above his head and starts tickling him. There's jumping about and giggling and pleas for mercy that go unnoticed until the young redhead threatens to tell Óin that their cousin is so cruel as to tickle him. Dwalin releases him and envelopes him in a great bear hug.

"Now," says Dwalin after he has released him. "Run along. I have my fearsome reputation to protect."

"Fearsome reputation! You'd love that."

"I _do_ love it." Dwalin says, grinning down at him. "Why don't you try out the throwing axes?"

He takes this advice and heads over to the sturdy table. The axes are heavy in his hand, made of iron. He throws one at the target and it just manages to get stuck into the outer part of the canvas. He tries this again and again. On his fifth go, he hears voices. Low, smoother voices. He turns around and sees two dwarrowdams.

One is older, easily around 150 years old. She is clad in a simple orange tunic, wearing brown trousers neatly tucked into brown leather boots. Around her thick waist is a cloth belt with loops holding several knives. He can see she has eyes of hazel and she wears a silver necklace with an amber pendant hanging off it. Her hair is like melted copper, matching her companion's own locks.

The younger dwarrowdam must be around his age. She wears her copper hair in a loose plait. Her growing beard is impeccably braided with beads of jade decorating it. She wears an emerald-green tunic with baggy black trousers tucked haphazardly into scuffed boots. She, too, carries knives on a slim black leather belt around her waist. From what Glóin can see, her eyes are sparkling amber. Though they've never met, he feels like he's met her before. Like he knows her.

Strange.

"What's your name?" Dwalin asks her.

"I'm Neoma, daughter of Alrik."

Neoma. So this is her name.

Neoma smiles suddenly. "Daughter of Amara, too!"

"Remembered me at last!" Amara teases.

Dwalin offers her a smile. "Have you practised fighting before? I assume you're practising knifework."

"I haven't really practised, no. Yes, I'm using knives."

"Knives are a good place to start." Dwalin tells her and leads the dwarrowdams to the knife display

He watches as she listens attentively, though she seems far too casual to have not been taught knifework before. Eventually she is allowed to leave and is told to have a look for any other weapons she might wish to take up. Her amber eyes meet his, holding the same recognition. He reaches back and hastily braids his ponytail into a simple plait and tugs at his beard, trying to make it look longer.

Why had he let Dwalin persuade him to let his hair free?

"Hello."

He tries to smile at her. "Hullo."

She really is very pretty. He's staring at her eyes like some smitten fool and she looks at him like she can't stop. As though she holds an interest.

No. He's getting daft, thinking such things.

"Are you Lord Gróin's son?"

"Yes."

She smiles. "You might have met my father. Alrik? He used to drag your da out for a pint after work."

"I'm not sure that my father didn't drag yours." Glóin tells her.

She grins wickedly. "You must know my da. Tall fellow..."

"You don't know what tall is. My father was nearly six feet in height."

She nods. "Well, he has bushy brown hair. Great big beard."

Glóin thinks. Slowly an image of a big, hairy dwarrow comes to mind. "The Old Bear!"

Neoma doubles over laughing. "I shall tell him!"

"Ah, please don't do that! He might not let me spend time with you."

Immediately, he thinks, _'Idiot! You only know her name. You are barely acquaintances and you say that?!'_ but she looks thoughtful.

"That would be bad. Well, I'll just tell him I met his friend's son." Her gaze softens. "He worries for you both. I happen to know your brother is of age and that, but it can be hard on your own."

"We get along fine."

"Well," Neoma grins at him again. "The Old Bear is very welcoming and friendly if you want to visit."

"Did you ever meet my da?"

"Once. Bumped into him while at the market. Da was taking me to buy Mammy her name-day gift. I was rather rude and stared at him." She looked down, abashed. "I had never seen such a massive Dwarf. In fact.." At this, however, Neoma looks away, her cheeks blushing.

"Tell me!" Glóin pleads. "Please?"

Looking down at the stone floor, Neoma mumbles; "I asked my da if his friend was of the race of Men."

Glóin can't help laughing at this. "He was tall enough, I suppose!"

"You can laugh. Da went so pink that by the time we reached Mammy's stall, she thought he had a fever."

"While my da probably went home and cried on my mammy's shoulder." Glóin teases her. He briefly wonders who his da went to after Mammy had died. Who did he go to when he felt sad on his birthday? Who did he go to on the anniversary of his brother, father and cousin's deaths? 'No one.' Glóin realises. 'He'd never come to us or one of his nephews for comfort. He gave it to us, but he refused to accept it.'

"I'm sorry." Neoma says, bringing him back from his thoughts. "It's too soon to joke about them."

"No, I've.. I've just been thinking a lot recently. Anyway, Mammy always preferred to joke about certain things than to mope about them."

Neoma's own mother chooses this moment to call her daughter back over. Looking toward the dwarrowdam, Glóin notices that Dwalin, the sod, is smirking. The two ladies say their 'thank-you's and leave, arms locked together tightly.

Dwalin continues smirking until it's hometime.


End file.
